


Keen Eyes

by Mandy_Shroom



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Acting, Alfyn Greengrass/Therion (One-Sided), Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Cyrus's Chapter One, Daggers, F/F, Fire, How Do I Tag, M/M, Magic, Stealing, Swords, Theres a description of a fight, just a bit though, oh and
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23449840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandy_Shroom/pseuds/Mandy_Shroom
Summary: Therion would say he's a fairly good actor. Thievery is lying, and so is acting, really. He knows just what to say and do to get into anyone's pockets. Not everyone falls for it, of course, but some are naïve enough to fall for his charade again and again.
Relationships: Cyrus Albright/Therion, Primrose Azelhart/H'aanit
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I've been playing Octopath for a while now, and I've been itching to write something for this beautiful game. Therion was my starter, so I have a soft spot in my heart for him, and Cyrus is just so cool! Anyway, here, have this nice piece of writing, I guess

Therion wouldn’t call himself an actor, really. He can’t star in some dumb play put on for the nobles of some dumb town. But being a thief kinda forces him to have, well, certain skills. It’s rather hard to steal from right under people’s noses if they thought him suspicious. He doesn’t fully get rid of his personality, of course, because he would probably die if he couldn’t make sarcastic comments under his breath. But he does pick up different mannerisms, and watches what he says all the time. It also helps him recognize the signs of other thieves, so there’s that.

Now, Therion definitely wouldn’t call himself a people person either. When he met H’aanit in the S’warkii forest, he wanted to turn right around and walk down to the Sunlands instead. H’aanit, being the kindest yet toughest person Therion’s ever met however, she insisted on helping him get rid of the Bandit’s Bangle. Another thing about H’aanit: she managed to weasel that out of him like 3 days after he swore to himself he would never show anyone. So yeah, it’s safe to say that Therion actually really likes H’aanit.

What he  _ doesn’t  _ like about her is the fact that she somehow managed to get two other people to join their little group. Primrose is nice, Therion muses, but Alfyn just grates on his nerves. Constantly going on about saving people, and how he wanted to be an Apothecary since he was little, blah blah blah. Honestly, by the time they got to the North Atlasdam Flats Therion was ready to throw Alfyn into the ocean.

—

_ Play nice, _ H’aanit mutters to him, walking next to him as they stroll into Atlasdam.  _ Easy for you to say, _ Therion grumbles back.  _ You don’t have to listen to this moron jabber on about herbs.  _ H’aanit simply ignores him, much to his annoyance.

“May I ask why we are here?” Primrose’s deep voice drifts towards them, and Therion glances back at where she’s walking with Alfyn. “Do either of you have business here?”

H’aanit smiles at her, and steps back to explain that  _ we’re staying hither for the night. _

Therion scoffs lightly. If H’aanit didn’t scare him slightly, he would've been teasing her for liking Primrose. Whatever, at least this gave him an opportunity to slip from his party. He heard some villagers talking about the city library, maybe he could nab some nice coin from the distracted scholars.

He walks down the stone path, adopting a slow, lazy stroll.  _ I’m just a tourist! Don’t mind me, _ he thinks, smiling and waving at a guard. The man smiles and waves back, not noticing his belt got a little lighter as Therion swiped his coin purse. Whistling, Therion walks on, looking to the world like a man on a pleasant walk.

He stops at a small square, looking every which way, as if lost. He kinda is, but the exaggeration could attract someone to help him. Which, honestly, would be the perfect person to steal from. A nice, naïve citizen who helps lost tourists.

To his right is a set of large stone stairs, leading up to a grand stone building. It looks elegant and polished, like a school or something. In front of him, another grand building. The flags and extra guards however, screams palace, and just the thought makes Therion shudder and fiddle with his Bangle, before crossing his arms tightly. To the left, down some steps is a smaller yet no less grand building, with a guard stationed at the door. But when the door swings open, he glimpses a large shelf with a seemingly endless amount of books. There, then.

“Did you need some help?” Before Therion can take a step, a man’s voice coming from the direction of the palace stops him. He turns in spot, and can’t wait to see what dumb citizen decided to help him. But then he stands, rooted to the spot. A tall, thin man stands a couple feet away from him, wearing a long, expensive-looking black cloak with gold detailing, a dark purple vest with more gold detailing over a poofy white shirt, and a short little ponytail holding back long hair. Point is, Therion is star-struck.

“Hello?” The man says, stepping closer. That’s enough for Therion to jolt back into reality, and he blinks at the man in front of him. Yep, still hot. 

“O-oh, I’m fine. I was just looking for the library?” It comes out as a question, and Therion curses himself for losing his composure so easily. “I think I’ve found it though. The one over there, right?” He removes his arm from where it was crossed under his poncho, and points over to the left of the square. The gorgeous man smiles and nods.

“Why yes, yes it is! Sharp of you to notice! In fact, I was just heading there myself, I’ll walk with you!” And then Therion found himself walking with the man, who seemingly talks forever. Therion learned that he is a scholar, that he teaches some young girls at the palace, and all about his favorite books and book genres. Therion smiles and nods when it feels appropriate, and manages to slip the man’s coin purse off of him. Sadly, the walk is rather short, and before Therion really gets to say anything, the man is saying goodbye.

“I do apologize, but I have to check in on some of my favorite people, and make sure things are running smoothly. Have a nice day!” Therion stands in the entrance to the library, simply watching the man walk away.  _ Huh,  _ he thinks, looking down at the coin purse, as a light blush brushes his cheeks.  _ That’s new. _

—

It’s much, much later when Therion finally slips into the tavern, knowing his companions will be waiting for him there. In fact, there they are, H’aanit and Primrose flirting while Alfyn talks the bartender’s ears off. None of them notice him enter, at least not until he slides onto a stool beside H’aanit.

“And where hast thou been?” She asks, at the same time as Alfyn shrieks a drunken _you’re back_! Primrose looks on, smirking slightly as Alfyn almost slides off his stool.

“Oh, you know. Here and there,” Therion shrugs, smiling thinly at H’aanit. “Hey, Primrose, I got you a new dagger,” he slips the dagger out from under his poncho, and lightly tosses it to the dancer. She catches it with ease, and examines it, looking excited. H’aanit tuts disapprovingly, but Therion knows that she doesn’t really care.

“What else did you get?” Alfyn pipes up, now sitting on Therion’s other side. The healer drapes himself on the bar, making himself look shorter than Therion, for once.

“Nothing for you, if you keep getting drunk at every tavern we go to,” he replies, slipping out a whole bow from his poncho, much to Alfyn’s amazement. That is, until the drunk man catches up to his words. Therion hands the bow to H’aanit, as Alfyn sputters.

“I-I don’t get drunk at  _ every  _ bar! Besides, you’re the one who’s always going on about wanting to get to the nearest tavern!” He’s got a good point, though Therion just laughs slightly, and nudges H’aanit. She used to ask him that same thing.

“When hast thou aye seen Therion posset?” She asks, and Therion laughs harder as Alfyn struggles to understand her accent. Primrose joins in, and soon it all dissolves, leaving Alfyn drunk and confused. 

“I’m going to head to the inn,” Primrose announces. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring this mess with me. You’re rooming with him though.” She points a finger at Therion, and he sighs slightly before nodding and tossing over a coin purse. She grins and leaves, dragging Alfyn behind her.

Therion puts his arm back, but another lump hits his hand. Confused, he pulls out the last coin purse, and smiles lightly when he realizes it’s the one he lifted off the scholar.

“I hast ne’r seen thou smile liken that ere,” comes a soft voice beside him, and he jolts, gripping the purse tightly and whipping his head to glare at H’aanit. “Where didst thou get that purse?” Her voice is gentle, carrying no judgement. Therion relaxes a fraction.

“There was a man, a scholar,” Therion feels himself start explaining. “He… was gorgeous, and he offered me help. It was just basic courtesy, he was so very naïve, yet…” He drifts off, not really sure why he feels so taken by the man. “I didn’t even get his name,” he whispers softly, opening his hand again to look at the elegant black and gold purse.

“Love is a fickle thing,” H’aanit begins, but Therion whips his head around again,  _ damn this is hurting my neck. _

“Love? I’m not in love. Shut up. You’re in love,” Therion shoots, tucking the purse carefully back into his poncho and turning to avoid her gaze.

“Therion, look upon me,” She says, gently. It’s not a request though, so he dutifully turns around again. “Love is fleeting. I love Primrose, much like Alfyn loves thou, and thou loves this man. ‘Tis bound to change and fade aroint, yet it might not. Never worry, that is for thy future. Live for now.” She smiles gently, before downing her mead and standing up. Clapping his shoulder, she walks away, leaving Therion alone with his thoughts.

—

The sun shines through the curtains, casting a thin but bright line of light directly on Therion’s bed. Luckily, the thief is already awake, far too accustomed to waking up before dawn. He flutters around the room, making sure nothing is left behind. Nothing is his, of course. Therion always travels light, and always has everything either on him or within range to grab. No, all the junk on the floor is Alfyn’s, the oaf snoring on the other bed.

Honestly, the satchel lying on one of the two chairs is just begging for Therion to snatch something, but then H’aanit would get mad at him, and she can get plenty scary. Instead, Therion simply grabs the curtains and throws them open, letting the sunshine flood the whole room. A loud groan from behind him just makes him smirk.

“Serves you right for drinking so much last night,” Therion snarks, walking over to the table and chairs and packing up Alfyn’s satchel for him. Really, it is just a tactic so he could grab his coin easier. Sue him, he fell to the temptation. H’aanit can yell at him later. The healer groans again, rolling on the bed and burying his head in the pillow.

Rolling his eyes, Therion tucks what meager coins he could find into his arm wrappings and walks over to Alfyn’s bed.

“I hope you know that I am prepared to Wildfire you.” No response. “I mean it. I’ll burn you right in your bed.” Nada. Sighing, Therion decides he has to pull out the big guns. “I will get Primrose.”

“Alright, alright! I’m up, don’t worry about it!” Alfyn shot up, knocking his head forcefully into Therion’s chin, causing him to let out a hiss. “Oh, sorry! Please don’t get Primrose!” Alfyn, still blinking rapidly, reaches up to grab Therion’s face. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“Dou’re squithing my fathe!” Therion says, glaring at Alfyn. Even kneeling on a bed, the healer is still taller than him. He quickly let’s go of Therion’s face, a bright red blush taking over his face.

“Oh, s-sorry. I’m gonna…” he trails off, glancing away. His eyes land on his satchel, and he quickly scrambles towards that. “I’ll pick up my stuff real quick!”

Therion thinks back to last night, what H’aanit said about love, and specifically about Alfyn. A blush overtakes his face, and he quickly dismisses himself from the room, muttering some excuse about needing to get some air.

_ I mean, it’s not that I don’t  _ like  _ Alfyn, _ Therion thinks as he walks downstairs.  _ Just, not in that way! He’s really not my type, plus he’s pretty annoying. _ He gets to the main room, and notices that neither H’aanit nor Primrose is down yet.  _ Maybe a walk will actually help. _

Therion leaves the inn, nodding at the innkeeper on his way. The fresh morning air greets him, and he carefully adopts a gentle stride, ‘tourist’ mask perfectly in place. Citizens roam the streets, children’s shouts of delight carry on the wind. Therion walks on, enjoying the city, and thinks about how they’ll be leaving in a matter of hours, once Alfyn cleans up his mess. It’s a sad thought, a fact that makes Therion falter. Why  _ is  _ it sad? He’s never been sad leaving a town before. Most of the time he’s happy to leave, almost eager, before the nobles realize all their valuables are missing. Is it because of what happened yesterday? Groaning under his breath, Therion shakes his head rather forcefully. This walk is supposed to clear his head, not fog it.

“Well hello again!” Therion jumps slightly as someone slides next to him, dropping into step. “Fancy seeing you again!” One glance is all it takes to confirm that, yes, it  _ is  _ the man from yesterday, the very one he was just thinking about.  _ Speak of the devil. _

“Ah, hello,” Therion replies, keeping his voice airy despite his heart trying desperately to beat its way out of his chest. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he speaks truthfully, for he really did believe that this scholar was out of his life. Clearly not.

“No, I suppose you did not? Judging by your travel garb and the mud on your shoes, I guess you’re not from around here, yes? By my guess, you look to be from Bolderfall, and made your way here through the S’warkii woods,” The man explains, examining Therion up and down. Therion splutters, faltering in his steps and almost tripping.  _ How could he read so much in a single glance? _

“Oh, I do apologize!” He exclaims, grabbing Therion’s elbow to stop him from falling. “I tend to have a rather rude habit of analyzing people. It’s gotten me in a bit of trouble before.” The man helps Therion stand, looking rather sheepish.

“It-it’s fine.” Oh, curse his damn stutter. Therion opens his mouth, about to ask him  _ What else can you tell? _ but before he can say anything, they’re interrupted by a shout from nearby.

“Professor Albright!” It’s a young woman, younger than him. She runs towards them, her long silver hair flowing out behind her. “There you are Professor Albright! Where have you been? It’s past lesson time!” She almost yells, looking at the man beside Therion. He inches closer, only for her to whip her head around and glare at him so forcefully it stops him in his tracks.

“Oh dear, I apologize Therese! I completely lost track of time,” the man, Professor  _ Albright _ apparently, says. He turns to Therion, a small smile on his lips. “If you would please excuse me, I must be going. My students won’t teach themselves!” The two walk off, though Therese watches him with a distrustful,  _ jealous _ eye behind her teacher’s back.

_ That was rather odd, _ Therion thinks, blinking.  _ A jealous student? Must have a thing for her Professor.  _ Not that he would blame her, because hello? The man was gorgeous. Smart and observant too, which made Therion a little nervous.  _ How much did he figure out? _ Except, not that smart, either. He clearly did not realize the jealousy just oozing off of his student.  _ Maybe he’s only observant for some things. _

After a couple moments of deliberation, Therion huffs a small laugh, and turns to walk back towards the inn.

—

Primrose is the only one waiting in the inn when he gets back. She’s sitting on a small chair, reading a book from an end table.

“Ah, there you are,” she states, not looking up from the book. “Alfyn and H’aanit went supplies shopping a little bit ago. I was told to wait for you.” Therion nods, watching as Primrose stands, dropping the book back on the table. “Let’s go. Alfyn is probably being suckered into a really bad deal or something.”

As it turns out, when Therion and Primrose finally do find Alfyn and H’aanit, they are definitely done shopping. They walk up to their other companions, and only then does Therion realize that they are not alone. Talking with them and looking quite delighted, is Professor Albright,  _ again. _

“Ah, Primrose, Therion,” H’aanit says, turning to greet them. The professor makes a noise of recognition, and H’aanit glances between him and Therion. “Has't thee hath met Cyrus bef're?”

“We keep meeting,” the man,  _ Cyrus _ , says, smiling down at Therion. “So you are Therion? So nice to officially meet you.” He holds out his hand, his smile wide.

“Likewise,” Therion replies, shaking his hand. “H’aanit, this is the, ah,  _ Professor,  _ I was talking about last night.” Her face scrunches for a second, before widening with recognition, but before she can say anything, Alfyn joins the conversation.

“You two know each other?” The healer says, a strange look on his face. He is looking at their hands, falling down from the handshake. “You don’t seem the type.” Therion looks away, he doesn’t like how much Alfyn’s expression reminds him of Therese’s from earlier. He was even standing taller, puffing his chest to look intimidating (for anyone that knows Alfyn, they know that he struggles to hurt a simple  _ Froggen,  _ much less a person).

“The type?” Cyrus asks, cocking his head to the side, reminding Therion of Linde. The thought makes him smile. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Alfyn,” H’aanit cut in, giving the apothecary a Look. “Leaven it be. Cyrus, prithee continueth thy story.”

“Oh, well. I was pretty much to the end of it. I was about to head down, and confront Russell about stealing the books. Would you care to join me?” Cyrus offers, glancing at Therion before settling on H’aanit. “You three look like you know how to take care of yourselves.”

“Aye, we doth,” H’aanit says, and looks at Therion, a knowing glint in her eyes. “We wouldst beest fain to accompany thee on thy quest, if 't be true thee doth us the hon'r of joining us.”  _ Gods damn it, H’aanit. _

“Really?” Cyrus says, looking surprised. “I’d love to! After all, I suppose I am out of a job now…” 

“Then t is settl'd. Alloweth us headeth out, aye?” H’aanit smiles at Cyrus, then sweeps her arm below her, dropping into a bow. “Leadeth the way.”

—

The tunnel is dark. Damp and creepy, with constant scurrying just at the edges of his vision.  _ Gross. _

Therion leads the way, to no one's protest. When Cyrus had asked why, H’aanit had simply responded that he had the best night vision, and left it at that. Surprisingly, the scholar didn’t push. It’s strange, because Cyrus had all but demanded to know everyone’s story, or what they were willing to tell. He had gotten the most out of Alfyn and H’aanit, and a generic explanation from Primrose. Therion supposes it’s only a matter of time before the man asks him. He could feel the curiosity, the gaze heavy on his back.

So he’s not really surprised when a few moments later, once the silence falls and he’s left looking in the damp and creepy cave himself, that someone speeds up slightly, and falls into step beside him. However, it’s not Cyrus he sees when he glances at his side, but Alfyn.

“You okay?” The apothecary asks, as concerned as always. The worried look in his eyes makes Therion scoff.

“M’fine,” he retorts, shifting to keep watch in front of him. They’ve already been surprised twice, and Therion is  _ not  _ gonna let that happen again. “This is what I do, remember?” He tries to not let bitterness into his voice, but it seeps in anyway.

“Woah, hey,” Alfyn says, and Therion knows exactly what he looks like despite not looking at him. Eyes wide, hands up in a placating manner. Just the thought of it makes him grind his teeth. “You seem upset, wanna talk about it?” 

_ Me, upset? What  _ ever  _ could have given you that idea?  _ Therion thinks viciously, and instead of responding he huffs, and walks faster, into the darkness.

Which quickly becomes a mistake. He runs off, ducking into the shadows and taking shortcuts wherever he can find them. But then, suddenly, he realizes that he has no idea where he is. Or how to get back. Or if he even wants to get back, for that matter.

_ Why?  _ He asks himself, grinding his teeth as he slows to a stop.  _ Why do you do this to yourself? Alfyn was trying to help, and you just ran off!  _ Therion groans, and runs his fingers through his hair, brushing the white strands every which way.  _ Why were you even upset? Why were you riled up?  _ Instead of responding to his thoughts, he walks on, light on his feet and low to the ground.

He ignores his thoughts, instead focusing on finding his way, trying to find even the barest hint of life that isn’t some elemental or an animated skeleton. A flickering light in the distance is enough to guide him, and he walks slowly towards a room, tucked in the back of a tunnel. Distracted as he is, he accidentally kicks a tiny pebble, the small sound echoing tenfold, just as he approaches the doorway

“Who’s there?” It’s a voice he doesn’t recognize, high-pitched and nervous. “Cyrus, is that you? Come out, bastard, and show yourself!” Shocked, Therion steps closer, not quite in the light but enough so he can see the speaker.

It’s a man, who looks around Cyrus’s age, and is dressed like him too. The black cloak with gold detailing, the nervous way he flits about and the way his eyes desperately search in the darkness looking for a face. This man is Russell.

“You must be Russell,” he says quietly, his hand gripping his dagger beneath his poncho. “Gambling debt, right? That’s why you stole the book?” The man gulps, and shakes where he stands.

Therion has never really been one for confrontation. He prefers the shadows, where he can escape if necessary. But he feels sympathetic towards this man, and he gets it. He steals for a living, he knows the reasons why. He doesn’t really want a fight, but he knows to expect one.

And a fight he gets. In the next breath, Russell suddenly shouts, and a hot wave of fire comes flying towards Therion. Just barely, he drops to the floor, as the fire singes his poncho slightly.

“Oh, I’m ready for you!” He shouts, and rushes the man with his dagger. Two quick swipes, and then he’s dancing out of the way as Russell throws a book at his head.

“Help me!” Russell shouts desperately, as he puts a band on the ground. Before Therion can react, there’s two Water Wisps, one on either side of him.

“Really? You’re calling for elementals?” Therion curses, and sends a Wildfire towards one, grinning fiercely as it evaporates easily. Another book flies at his head, hits its mark, and Therion is dazed for a second, blinking stars out of his eyes. Right, that’s a problem.

Quickly, he pulls out his sword and slashes at the scholar, trying to knock him off balance, and breathes a sigh of relief when he falls.  _ He won’t stay down for long, I need to act fast. _ Therion thinks, and sends another Wildfire, this time at the other Wisp.  _ Die!  _ He wants to scream, and pushes the fire as hot as it can go. When the fire dies out, the Wisp is nowhere to be seen.

“Damn it!” And just like that, Russell’s back on his feet. Therion backs away quickly, as another book gets thrown at his head, and Russell starts chanting under his breath, glaring at him.  _ Shit shit shit. _

Checking his pockets, he curses under his breath once he realizes he left all his stuff with his party, and he’s only got a single pomegranate. Grabbing it, he scarfs it down while standing back, waiting to see what’ll happen.

“Fireball!” The cry echoes throughout the chamber, and Therion pales as a large ball of fire appears, growing bigger and bigger from Russell’s hands. There’s no place to run, a fact that is becoming increasingly clear to him. The only thing he can do is brace for it and hope for the best. Russell releases it, and Therion grits his teeth and prepares for impact.

It’s hot, is the first thing he notices. Very, very hot. So very hot, he falls to his knees and tries to curl into a ball. He can hear someone screaming in agony, he thinks. It’s jarring to realize that it's himself, barely heard above the roaring of the fire.

And just like that, the fire’s gone. Dissipated, and all Therion can see is Russell’s ragged face, and his vision stays fiery red.

His body protests, but he manages to get up, and rushes forward, relishing when Russell’s triumphant smile slides off his face. Three quicks stabs with his dagger, and down the scholar goes. Not dead, but knocked out and bleeding heavily.

Therion’s breath is ragged, and he slips his dagger back in its sheath as he rubs blood trickling from his mouth. As the adrenaline seeps from his body, he feels himself swaying, and falls to his knees.

“Therion!” There’s a cry from the door, and he turns his head, looking at his party, who stand in the doorway, faces filled with shock. They’re looking everywhere, probably at the scorch marks on the wall, but Cyrus stares right at him. Therion opens his mouth, although not sure what he wants to say, but suddenly gravity becomes a lot stronger, and he collapses. The last thing he hears is another cry of his name, ringing loudly in his ears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therion wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fuck its been a while. Sorry about that...  
> I recently finally got to play Octopath again, and got inspired to finish this chapter. I'm debating on if I want to actually finish this story, or just leave it as this two-shot. Lemme know!

When Therion wakes up, he doesn’t open his eyes right away. Instead, he lies still, trying to keep his breath even and his ears sharp. Waking up when you don’t remember where you are is never a good thing, and Therion wants to make sure he has the advantage on whoever is there.

Light shuffling from across the room quickly catches his attention, and he dares to let his eyelids flutter open just the slightest amount. The light is blinding, and as he holds in a groan, he wonders just how long he’s been out.

At first, all he can make out is basic colors, the blue of the bedsheets and the brown of the wood walls. The picture becomes sharper, and a green moving blob becomes defined more as a person. A very familiar person with an apothecary bag slung over his shoulder. The healer turns, and Therion flutters his eyes shut as gently as he can, and keeps his breath as even and slow as physically possible. He hears shuffling again, this time coming closer, and then the distinct sound of a chair being moved around. 

With a heavy sigh, Alfyn sits in the chair, presumably. A weight is suddenly on his chest, and it takes every ounce of willpower Therion has to not jump out of the bed when he realizes it’s Alfyn’s  _ hand. _

“Therion,” Alfyn begins, voice so very soft. It makes Therion’s stomach twist painfully, and he prays to every god he can think of to get Alfyn away. He is absolutely not prepared for this. Fortunately, one of them must have been listening, because in the next moment a soft knock comes from the door. The healer pulls away quickly, while Therion thanks the gods in his head.

“Hello Alfyn,” comes the soft voice from the door, when Alfyn opens it. The shock of it makes Therion look again, peering through his eyelashes. And lo and behold, there is Cyrus, standing at the door with a neutral expression on his face. “H’aanit sent me. I believe it’s my time to take over watch?”

Alfyn looks at the window, and sighs. Cyrus glances over to Therion, who quickly shuts his eyes, but the scholar doesn’t say a thing.

“I suppose it is,” Alfyn says, voice slightly firmer than it was a minute ago. “If he wakes up, you better come straight to me, yeah?” The hard edge doesn’t fit with the concern soaking his voice, and it makes Therion wince slightly.

“Of course,” Cyrus says smoothly, his voice much harder to read. “Now you better get going, H’aanit is very stern when she wants to be.” Alfyn left in a hurry after that, swearing kid curse words under his breath.

A few moments pass, silent except for the door closing shut and the sound of Cyrus sitting in the chair Alfyn had just vacated. The hurried steps fade, and then the silence fills the air, thick and tense. Therion works on keeping his breath even, knowing that even the slightest hitch will catch the scholar’s sharp eye.

“Therion,” Cyrus says, so very quietly and gently that he almost misses it. “I know you’re awake.” A hitch in his breath, but he refuses to open his eyes now, he doesn’t want to give Cyrus the satisfaction of being right.

Well, until a soft hand grabs his own, gentle yet persistent.

“Therion,” he says again, a little more insistent this time. “Therion, look at me.” And of course he does. How can he say no to that voice?

Blinking his eyes open gently, he’s met with dark blue eyes staring down at him. Swallowing his suddenly dry throat, he attempts to sit up, only for pain to shoot down his back and a hand to push him back down.

“Easy now,” Cyrus says, gentle yet firm. “You’re still damaged. What do you remember?”

“Uh,” Therion starts, then coughs as he tries to speak with a voice that clearly has not been used for a while. Cyrus hands him a glass of water, while Therion nods his thanks, and sits patiently for him to finish.

“Well, I remember going down, underground,” Therion tries again, grimacing when his voice still croaks. “And I remember, uh, leaving the group.” He stops, looking away in shame and embarrassment as the memory becomes sharper.

“Anything else?” The hand holding his squeezes slightly, bringing his attention to the fact that Cyrus has yet to let go. He feels his cheeks flush, and refuses to look at him.

“Um,” he continues, struggling to keep his train of thought with the warm hand enveloping his own. “I came across Russell’s… cave? Study? I don’t really know what it was. He, uh, assumed I was you and attacked me.” The sharp intake of breath beside him makes him stop. But a quick glance tells him to finish. “We fought, and the last thing I remember was when you four found us, and I fell.”

The silence fills the room again, even thicker and more tense than before. A few excruciatingly awkward minutes pass, and Therion dares a look at Cyrus. The scholar looks lost in thought, his other hand - the one not holding Therion’s - is resting upon his chin, knuckles brushing his lips just so. 

“You’ve been asleep for almost a week,” Cyrus’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and a deep blush floods his cheeks as he realizes he zoned out while staring at his face. That is, until his brain catches up with the man’s words.

“A week?” He says, incredulous. He attempts to sit up again, this time successful. "Seriously?" Cyrus nods, a small frown on his face. The scholar gets up, dropping his hand, and Therion avoids thinking about missing the warmth it provided. 

Walking towards a desk in the corner, which Therion realizes Alfyn was standing at earlier, Cyrus reaches for something lying on the surface. He pulls it into his arms, and gently carries it back to the bed. Therion gasps mutely when he realizes it's his poncho.

Looking down at himself, he notices that he's simply in his white undershirt, but his arm wrappings are still firmly in place. However, the shirt had hitched up when he sat up, and he pulls it up further to reveal a large bandage covering most of his stomach and chest.

"Ah, you've noticed," Cyrus's voice says, and he looks up to see the man standing above him, the poncho draped over one arm. Noticing where he's looking, Cyrus holds it out to him. "Here you are. We took it off so Alfyn could treat you, plus all the damage it had sustained. H'aanit stitched it herself, I believe."

Therion grabs the poncho, and quickly puts it on. He looks down at the hem, noticing the new stitching, expertly done. Carefully, he pulls and twists at it, making sure it’s secure. Unfortunately, this causes one of his stolen coin purses to come loose, and he feels it fall onto his chest, a heavy thud. Extra-unfortunately, it hits him right on one of the wounds, and he grunts, clutching his chest in favor of retrieving the purse.

“Oh! Oh dear, are you alright…” Cyrus’s voice fades out slightly, trailing off. Therion looks up just in time to see him grab, well, his own coin purse. “This looks… how in the world did this get in your poncho? I lost this last week, I believe…” 

“Uhh,” Therion says eloquently, trying to decide if he wants to play dumb or not. “Maybe Primrose or Alfyn found it, but they didn’t know it was yours?”

“That would make sense, but why would they put it in your poncho?” Cyrus has put his, well, his thinking face on now. “They would’ve just asked me, right? I could’ve helped them find the owner, if it wasn’t mine.” Therion grimaces slightly, and resigns to telling the truth.

“Actually, Cyrus,” Therion says, then blinks, realizing this is the first time he’s said Cyrus’s name aloud. It rolls rather nicely off his tongue. “The, uh, the reason I had your coin purse-”

“Perhaps someone had stolen it from me?” Cyrus wasn’t really listening at all, still mumbling his thoughts aloud. “But I know thieves, when would I have been around one?  _ Think, _ Cyrus! Who has gotten close enough to lift your purse?”

Therion sits still, rather impatiently. Clearly, trying to tell the man himself wasn’t gonna happen, at least not in this state. Might as well wait until he got to the conclusion himself. Instead, he just fidgets nervously with his poncho again, weaving the edge between his fingers again and again.

“The only new people I met…” And then Cyrus trails off, watching Therion fidget intently. There’s a brief moment of silence, during which Therion swears he can physically hear the cogs turn in Cyrus’s head.

“You,” Cyrus says, in an unreadable voice.  _ Gods,  _ what Therion would give to be able to know what he’s thinking. “You’re the one that stole it.” It’s a simple statement, not a question.

“Surprise?” Even to him, his voice sounds meek. Cyrus won’t do anything to hurt him, he knows that, but just the thought of the scholar hating him…

“How?” Cyrus cuts through his thoughts, sitting in the chair and leaning forward.  _ What?  _ “How did you manage to slip this off, and I didn’t even know until a week later!” The laugh that bubbles from Cyrus shocks him, but the sound washes over him softly, making him relax just a fraction.

“What do you mean, how? I’m a thief,” Therion says without thinking, then widens his eyes and slaps his hand over his face. Cyrus’s eyes seem to sparkle though, so it all evens out really.

“Show me,” Cyrus says, tucking the purse on his belt again. 

“Wait, what?”

“Show me!” His face is just so eager, eager to learn something new. The joy is a little overwhelming, and Therion feels his own face start to heat up.

“Oh, well…” he trails off, thinking. How do you steal from someone who is literally  _ watching you steal? _ The answer comes to him easily enough, a skill that every thief learns very quickly into their career:  _ misdirection. _

Casually as he can, he rummages in his poncho, very awake of the eyes intently watching him. He pulls out a single candy, one he stole from a creepy old man a couple weeks ago. Holding it out to Cyrus, he lets it fall just before the scholar can grab it, looking confused.

“Ah damn,” he says, letting out a small frustrated noise. “Can you pick that up for me?”

“Certainly! Although I don’t really see-” as he bends down, Therion quickly slips the purse off his belt again. “How this is gonna help you- oh!” 

Grinning slightly, Therion shakes the coin purse he’s holding up, relishing in Cyrus’s astounded face.

“Amazing!” What he wasn’t expecting, however, was for Cyrus to suddenly reach forward, grasping both the purse and his hand. “That was really clever of you! I believe that’s a trick actors and jesters tend to use, yes? Misdirection?”

With Cyrus’s face a mere few inches away from his face, clutching his hand, all Therion can do is simply nod, slightly afraid to open his mouth. The look of amazement, no, almost  _ admiration _ , is a little tough to handle. Cyrus opens his mouth to say more, but the door swings open, squeaking loudly and causing both of them to look at it.

Standing in the doorway, smirking slightly when she sees the position they are in, is Primrose. She lifts up a hand, gesturing over to them, and talking over her shoulder to someone.

“See, I knew I heard voices,” she says airily, a laugh clear in her voice. The other person steps forward, and Therion inhales sharply when he sees the rather dark look on Alfyn’s face as it appears. The scowl only grows when Cyrus gets up and walks to the door, coin purse forgotten.

“Oh, I do apologize Alfyn. He only just woke up, I was just coming to get you,” Cyrus says smoothly, glancing back at Therion and giving the lightest of winks. “I had to give him his poncho first, you understand?”

Though his words hold no malice, nor do they sound even condescending, Alfyn starts to puff up, stopped simply by Primrose’s hand on his shoulder. Instead, he just shoulders past Cyrus, giving him the dirtiest glare Therion has ever seen on his face. Alfyn could really be frightening if he wanted to be.

“Alright, I have to treat him now. Everybody out!” Alfyn says, voice raised just slightly. He shoos them with his hands, attempting to close the door. Just before he does, Therion makes eye contact with Cyrus, and shakes his coin purse once again, which pulls a laugh out of the scholar right as the door closes. 

Once the door is closed, Alfyn turns around, going over to the desk again. He pulls open his satchel, which Therion realizes is sitting on there as well, and pulls out some herbs. The apothecary stays quiet, even as he turns back to the bed and sits in the chair. 

Therion quickly tucks the coin purse away again, hidden in a pocket in his poncho. He watches as Alfyn gives him wordless instructions, tapping the bottom of his arms when he needs to raise them, pulling on his poncho slightly to indicate he needs to take it off. It’s all rather unnerving, to say the least. Alfyn has always been such a chatty guy, it’s weird when nothing but silence fills the room. Only when he is tending the wound on his stomach does Therion decide to break it.

“Cyrus…” he starts, wincing as Alfyn’s face seems to darken just at the scholar’s name. “Cyrus said I was out for a week?” he pushes on regardless, asking his question. Alfyn nods shortly, hands stiffer than before. Therion is sure that it’s pure muscle memory that pushes him forward. “Was I really that bad?” he can’t help but ask.

“Therion,” Alfyn sighs, pausing his movements, just as he’s rewrapping the bandages. “When we found you, you had collapsed on the ground, covered in 3rd degree burns. I thought you were dead.” His words hang heavy in the air, and Therion just feels guilty.  _ This is what he gets for getting close to people again. He gets hurt, they get hurt, and in the end, no one’s happy. Why couldn’t he have kept his promise to himself, why did he get attached again, why didn’t he learn from Dar- _

“It’s a miracle we got you out of there,” Alfyn continues, cutting into Therion’s thoughts, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil he’s going through. “I had to do some emergency first aid right then and there, to make sure you didn’t bleed out in my arms. H’annit carried you out, and we’ve been here ever since. You owe me 2000 leaves worth of medical herbs, by the way.”

Therion just stays quiet, not sure how to respond. He waits as Alfyn finishes patching him up, being as lenient as possible. Alfyn may be an apothecary, but Therion has seen the way he can swing his axe. He’d rather not get on his bad side. Once he’s done, Alfyn stands up, not looking Therion in the eyes. The tension is practically palpable.

“Your arms and face are pretty much healed. Your chest is still hurt badly, and I recommend rest, though I know you won’t listen to me,” he explains, and Therion can see a tiny smile on his face at the last part.  _ Good, so he doesn’t  _ fully _ hate me.  _ “You should be fine for traveling again. But I  _ will  _ be keeping an eye on you during battles, alright?”

“Of course,” Therion replies. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from my apothecary.” That pulls a smile out of him. Therion pulls the blankets off of himself, and moves to the side of the bed, standing up. His chest aches in protest, but he ignores it, walking over and clapping Alfyn’s shoulder. “Thank you, Alfyn. I-, I’m glad I’m not dead.” With that, he pulls at his poncho slightly, making sure it's covering him correctly, before making his way out the door. 

\---

“Ah, Therion! Thou art well enow. Those w're some nasty wounds,” H’annit greets, as he walks into the main room of the inn. “Primrose and I w're betting on how longeth t wouldst taketh f'r thee to waketh up.” Primrose waves from where she’s sitting beside H’annit.

“I won,” she grins, spinning a coin purse on her finger. H’annit rolls her eyes fondly, and Therion has a feeling that she threw the bet. Not that he would say so out loud, he’s quite fond of not getting an arrow in his arm. A warm chuckle from the other side of the room draws his attention, and he turns to see Cyrus sitting on a chair, book open in his lap, although he clearly wasn’t paying attention to it.

On an impulse, Therion pulls the coin purse out, tossing it so it landed right on Cyrus’s open book. The scholar startles, before picking it up and chuckling again. He can see H’annit watching them in the corner of his eye, a knowing smile on her face.

“Ah!” Cyrus exclaims. “You must show me how you do that.” Therion just shrugs at him, a lazy smile on his face as he drops into the chair beside him. While the older man is still staring at the purse, he reaches up and over, pulling the hair band from his hair, letting the ponytail free. He starts playing with it, wondering how long it will take for him to notice.

H’annit laughs loudly from across the room, and Therion just smirks back. Primrose juggles the coin purse back and forth a few times, before tossing it over to Therion, who caught it easily. He tucked it away, before continuing his fidgeting with the hair band. H’annit cleared her throat, getting everyone’s attention.

“We shouldst headeth out the present day,” she says. “We has't hath spent too much timeth h're, i feareth.” Therion nods, before gesturing to the stairs he came down from. 

“Alfyn’s packing up, I think. We can meet him at the gate,” he says, before standing up again and stretching. Ignoring the impulse to double over and clutch at his chest, he moves over to the door, waiting for the others to join him.

\---

They make their way through the town, heading towards the entrance. Therion studies the way they all move, noticing the minute differences. H’annit seemingly stomps through town, with Linde following dutifully behind her, although her feet barely make a sound. He figures all her years training to be a hunter has taught her how to step lightly. Primrose sways as she walks, her hips going just wider than they would normally, attracting the attention of many people nearby. He knows that it’s on purpose, to let down their guards and trick them into thinking she’s a harmless dancer; he should know, he almost fell for it himself. Cyrus strolls through the town, watching people bustle past them. The scholar’s familiarity is clear, as Therion watches him sidestep cracks in the stone with ease, knowing they are there.

As if he can feel the eyes on him, Cyrus glances back at him, before smiling and falling back, to walk beside him. Even the way he halts and starts again screams elegance, and Therion quickly looks away before he starts looking for the wrong reason.

“You are quite observant, Therion,” Cyrus says quietly, as to not disturb H’annit and Primrose’s conversation in front of them. “Tell me, what do you see?”

“3 people walking,” Therion replies snarkily, gripping his arms under his poncho. Cyrus tuts disapprovingly, causing him to narrow his eyes at the scholar. 

“Oh, come on now. I know an observant gaze when I see one. You can see far more than you let on,” Cyrus says. “Now, what do you  _ see _ ?” Therion huffs, before sighing and deciding to go with it.

“H’annit marches wherever she goes, confident in her stride and where she’s going,” Therion starts. Cyrus nods, and gestures for him to go on. “Yet she makes almost no sound, from years of hunting. Primrose, on the other hand, sways as she walks, flowy and eye-catching. She’s trying to attract attention, and to let people’s guard down.” He speaks shortly and clipped, rather clinical in his explanation.

“Very good, that is what I see as well,” Cyrus says, crossing his hands behind his back. His hair droops in his face a little, and Therion smiles as he fingers the hairband still on his wrist. “What does my walk say?” His tone is light, curious, and Therion can’t help but answer.

“Familiarity,” Therion states. Cyrus tilts his head to the side, much like a dog, so he continues. “I can tell you know this city inside and out. You’ve walked these streets your whole life, and avoid the cracks and potholes without even realising you’re doing it. That’s something you can’t fake, no matter how good an actor you are.” The scholar hums at his words, and he’s worried that maybe he said too much, that maybe Cyrus wasn’t expecting him to be read so well.

“You have such keen eyes, Therion,” he says quietly, with a fond tone. “Most people work for years to be that observant. They tend to hate people like us, who are naturally accustomed to it.” Therion’s heart skipped a beat at the word ‘us’, and he cursed his stupid little crush. He really couldn’t wait until they left the city, and Cyrus, behind. He tried to ignore how the thought of leaving the scholar hurt his heart.

“I’m very glad I met you,” Cyrus says, turning to look Therion in the eye. “It’s hard to find someone who understands people the way I do. I hope you let me stay with you.” 

Therion stops walking, slightly shell-shocked. He doesn’t let it show on his face though, and he’s glad that they’ve just reached the gate. H’annit and Primrose turn around, saving him from having to respond.

“Alfyn shouldn't taketh longeth, what direction shall we beest heading?” H’annit asks, leaning to the side, hand on her hip. Primrose shrugs, the action decidedly ungraceful. She’s being herself around them, Therion noted. “Eke, art thee coming with us Cyrus?”

“Oh well…” Cyrus says, blinking slightly and glancing at Therion. He just stares back, not really sure what option would be worse. “If you’ll have me, I’d love to accompany you. I…” he looks between the three of them. “I always have wanted to explore the world. There’s so much to learn out there, knowledge I never would get otherwise.I also need to find  _ From the Far Reaches of Hell,  _ one of the missing books from the library _.  _ Russell didn’t have it.”

“Hey guys!” Before anyone can reply, a bright greeting interrupts, and Therion doesn’t even have to turn to realize that Alfyn has caught up to them. He does anyway, and takes in Alfyn’s harried appearance. The apothecary’s satchel sat on his hip, half open from his run, and his jacket is half-off, clearly thrown on in a hurry. “Let’s head out! It was nice meeting you Cyrus.”

“Alfyn, the professeth'r is going to beest travelling with us,” H’annit explains, and Therion watches as his face goes through multiple emotions. Confusion, understanding, anger and jealousy, before settling on a terrible neutral face. The man really does wear his heart on his sleeve, and if Therion noticed, so did Cyrus.

“Ah,” he says, “yay. Glad you could join us. Say, you never said what exactly you could do.” It’s less of a question, more of a statement, and Therion can’t help but cringe. A glance at Cyrus, however, shows that the man didn’t take it as an insult.

“Oh, yes, I did forget to mention, didn’t I?” Cyrus says, looking sheepish. “I excel in spells and magic. I know fire, ice, and lightning spells, and I’m also excellent at figuring out weaknesses.” Therion smiles slightly, realising he knows the elements that he, H’annit, and Alfyn do. 

“Concluded, be it,” H’annit cut in, looking frustrated. “Which direction shouldst we headeth in?”

“Rippletide lies to the south, we could head in that direction?” Cyrus suggests, turning to face her. Therion watches as Alfyn scowls at his turned back, before looking like a kicked puppy when Primrose glares right back at him. Both H’annit and Cyrus seem oblivious to the silent conversation around them.

“Rippletide t is, thanketh thee cyrus,” H’annit says, before gesturing to all of them. “Alloweth us headeth out anon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, that's it lol. yes, cyrus said the name of the fic, hehe. Anyway, for the 3 people who may or may not have been waiting for this fic (idk), let me know if you actually want me to finish lol

**Author's Note:**

> And that's the end of chapter one! Will there be more? I don't know yet, honestly. I have a very vague idea of how I want this story to go, but I have no idea if people will like it or not. Feedback is appreciated!  
> .  
> (Sorry about Alfyn, by the way. He's a great guy and all, but he gets on my nerves sometimes. He is kinda taking the brutal end of my anger, and I apologize to anyone who really likes him)
> 
> (Also, in case it notified anyone, I was just uploading a slightly edited version of the first chapter)


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